The Victims of Ourselves
by like.totally.awesome
Summary: We really weren't so different at all. We were too similar to have met in any other circumstance. We were six pieces of a whole. A doomed whole that was destined for failure, but a whole all the same. AU


**A/N: So I haven't updated in awhile and I'm totes sorry about that, but my excuse is that as soon as the holidays ended school resumed and so I have been swamped. BUT, this is my present to you while you wait patiently for me to write the next chapter of CUAU (also, for that, mind voting on my poll so that I don't make an awful decision?)  
>WARNINGS: mentions of suicide, character death, depression, major OCC-ness, some plot inconsistancy and totally crappy ending, language<strong>

**The Victims of Ourselves**

"Cheers, Hummel."

I look up to see Noah holding out his plastic cup and looking pointedly at mine. The cheap alcohol stares back at him as I make no move to pick it up.

"What's with you?"

"Nothing, Noah. It's been a long night."

"That's what the booze is for."

"I don't like alcohol."

"I thought your plan was booze and pills?"

"Exactly. Thank you for proving my point."

"Right… will you just drink the damn thing or give it back? Some of us want to get pleasantly buzzed off this shit."

I ignore him until he huffs and takes the cup from the small table in front of me. I have to get through this book before the fifth comes, and I still most of it to go. Santana shouts something obscene: I assume that she and Noah are well on their way to sleeping together whether or not I'm in the 'room', but it only briefly breaks my concentration.

"It's kind of sad that you're betting your life on a book."

"I'm trying to read, Blaine."

"It's the truth. What if it doesn't have the ending you think it will?"

"I never said the ending of this book would change things. I just have to finish it."

"Why?"

"It was my mom's favorite."

"My mother's favorite book is How to Be a Bitch. She wrote it herself."

"I'm serious, Blaine. I have to finish this. Go away."

"What is it anyway? That covers so fucking ripped up and faded it's got to be like, a hundred years old."

"Les Misérables," I reply in my perfect French accent. "Now please leave me alone."

"You're pretty sexy when you speak French. By the way, spoiler alert, everyone dies."

He doesn't even seem slightly uncomfortable under my best bitch glare. The smile he gives me in return most certainly does not contribute to the pink on my cheeks; it is just really hot in the RV with everyone cramped inside.

"I've seen the musical, Blaine. They do not all die."

"If you've seen the musical, why are you reading the book?"

"I already told you!"

"It was mommy's favorite, blah blah blah. That doesn't explain everything."

"I don't have to defend myself to you."

"But you are anyway."

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"Blaine!" Puck grunts from on top of Santana. "Leave the Princess alone. He's in one of his moods."

"I am not in a _mood_."

"You all are nuts," Sam calls from the front of the RV where he's inevitably driving while slightly intoxicated. "Those two are getting it on while you two argue about a book and Kurt's desire to read it."

"Aren't you used to it by now, Trouty Mouth?"

"Shut up Santana."

"It's better than the depressing crap that makes up the rest of our lives."

"Real wise, Puckerman. Very deep."

"Nobody's forcing you to be here, Anderson. You can fuck off at the next stop."

"I'm in this 'til the end," Blaine says with determination. There's this look in his hazel eyes that speaks thousands of jumbled words no one but he can understand. I don't want to understand, not really, there's just a morbid curiosity as to why someone like him would want to throw everything away.

"That's what they all say," the Latina glares at him, apparently giving up on having sex while we all talk.

"Look, pumpkin," sneers Blaine, "I get that you're fucked up and all, but if I want to die than I fucking well will whether you like it or not."

How did we get here? We being six (including Quinn, who is passed out in the front beside Sam) seriously screwed over teenagers driving off to commit suicide together. I don't think any of us really know the whole story behind each of the six puzzle pieces or really how we came to be together, but it went a little bit like this.

_(Page 379- "The jostlings of young minds against each other have this wonderful attribute, that one can never foresee the spark, nor predict the flash. What may spring up in a moment? Nobody knows.")_

* * *

><p>"Such a shame…" My father sighed, flipping a page in the newspaper.<p>

"What is?"

"Oh… just an ad. You know I love you, right?"

"Yeah…?"

"Good. I have to go to the garage before customers get sent to Johnson's instead."

"Bye."

"Get to school on time today, alright, son?"

"Yeah, dad."

He didn't know that I tried to be as close to the bell as possible to escape from the terror that was the hallways when everyone was waiting around for class. Slushie facials and locker shoves and dumpster tosses were enough of a reason to stay at home or even in my car in the parking lot until I was sure that everyone would be in class. But it didn't matter, because he left with my lie and believed it just like I knew he would and secretly had wished that he wouldn't have.

I pulled the newspaper towards me and picked through the pages until I found the ad I was pretty sure he'd been referring to.

'_Hey bitches_,' and wow, that was a terrible way to address people if you're selling something. '_For just a nice little sum of $300, for gas and food and the like, you can be the envy of all your fucked up friends! That's right, I'm talking suicide pact. Join me on the road to sunny San Diego, California, where a friend of mine has all the shit we need to end our terribly pointless lives.' _An email address was printed below with an ironic smiley face that made the whole thing about ten times more sick.

I stared at that ad for a good half an hour. The first thought was inevitably 'Who in their right minds would allow this to be published in a public newspaper?' followed closely by a repeat of '"Hey bitches"? Really?' But then I really _thought_ about it. It was nothing new for me to be thinking about suicide. I'd considered it since ninth grade when I was first shoved into a dumpster and couldn't lift the lid to get out, subsequently having to sit in the disgusting metal box until the janitor opened it to shove another bag in. There were so many reasons added up in my head, most involving the extensive bullying that went on at school, and I had found myself numerous times in front of the medicine cabinet counting pill bottles. That was how I would do it. I'd made that particular decision halfway through sophomore year; the events leading up to it were too dark and repressed to want to think about. I knew it would be pills and alcohol to speed up and intensify the little process. I didn't care about the horror stories of getting your stomach pumped if I somehow survived; I didn't care about anything except getting out of Lima, Ohio the easy way.

It wasn't until two days later, when I was researching for a history essay on my computer, that the ad came into my mind again. Before I knew it I was typing the email address that I'd memorized into the 'To:' section (_'puckasaurus_' was an odd email address, but oh well).

'_Dear… puckasaurus…_

_I read your ad in the paper on Tuesday and I've decided that I want in.'_

It took about an hour for a reply.

'_The name's Puck. _

_That's real good for you, buddy, but membership is pretty exclusive. Tell me about yourself. And when you're giving me that $300.'_

'_I'm Kurt._

_I'm almost seventeen. I'm gay, and proud of it, but the Neanderthals at my school aren't too fond of me. I decided that I was going to commit suicide… a while back. I don't know how to get the money to you, obviously. When are we leaving?'_

'_Well, Kurt, I'm going to call you Princess. Since you're gay and all. Or you can be Butt Pirate. Your choice._

_I'm eighteen. I don't really care what you like to bang so long as you've got the cash (yes, cash) and are waiting outside of the Lima Bean at 9pm on Saturday. Wear pink so I know it's you.'_

'_Princess is somehow preferable._

_Pink? Really?'_

'_Everyone's getting a different color. Or else I might think you're someone else and that wouldn't do. I have to judge you by sight and all. Can you drive?'_

'_Who is everyone? I have a license, but I'm not fond of long periods of driving.'_

'_It's good you asked. In case you get there first, 'cause I have to pick up some things, you can gather everyone. A hot Latina should be in black, some blonde homeless dude in red, and another gay guy will be in yellow. Got it?'_

'_You categorized people by hair and race… except the two gay guys? Really? How do you expect to notice us?'_

'_My gaydar is pretty good.'_

'_You're supposed to be gay to have a gaydar, genius.'_

'_Very funny. _

_P.S. another one on board: a(nother) blonde, cheerleader type, in green'_

On Friday I skipped school. I knew that there would be a phone call home and tons of questions, but I had to get ready. I dug two suitcases from my father's closet and laid them on my bed (there was no way I was going to waste my good luggage for this trip; Dad could at least make some money off it to pay funeral fees…). What did one pack for a suicide road trip? I decided that I might as well keep my fashion sense intact. What if the obituary, seeing pictures from the scene, assumed that I was a closeted butch-gay? That would not have been acceptable. Plus, there was going to be another gay guy and some part of my mind didn't really want to die a virgin… Shaking the thoughts from my head, I carefully placed several combinations of shirts and skinny jeans into the largest of the suitcases. The other one was filled with shoes and my skin care routine, because I'd be damned before I died with acne or dry, flaky skin. It also contained five bottles: two old prescriptions for pain medication from when my father had his heart attack and three bottles of sleeping pills. From the vibes I had gotten from Puck's emails I was pretty sure that there would be alcohol involved somewhere along the road to California, so I didn't pack any of that. I didn't care about whatever way to die Puck had planned for us with his friend's stuff; I was still going out my way.

While ruffling under my bed for my favorite edition of Vogue, a book caught my eye. Les Misérables… I remembered my mother singing the songs from the musical or being curled up on the couch with the very same book right in front of her nose. It was at her bedside as she died and a quote from it was read at her funeral. I had never read the book because I was too afraid to think of her and what she would think of me now, but something told me to pick it up. And I did. I promised myself then and there that I would have that monster of a book finished before I killed myself, even if that meant reading every second until the fateful moments. I gently peeled back the front cover of the worn and well-loved copy and stared at my mother's handwriting: '_Elizabeth Redding_', only the '_Redding_' was crossed out in a different color with a large and calligraphic '_Hummel_' in its place. Turning the page again I looked at the first words and sighed. It was going to be a very, very long journey to the back cover.

_(Preface-__** "**__So long as there shall exist, by virtue of law and custom, decrees of damnation pronounced by society, artificially creating hells amid the civilization of earth, and adding the element of human fate to divine destiny; so long as the three great problems of the century- the degradation of man through pauperism, the corruption of woman through hunger, the crippling of children through lack of light- are unsolved; so long as social asphyxia is possible in any part of the world;-in other words, and with a still wider significance, so long as ignorance and poverty exist on earth, books of the nature of Les Misérables cannot fail to be of use.")_

Saturday morning at exactly 8:49 at night, I pulled in to the parking lot of the Lima Bean. Only then did I smack my forehead for not remembering that I would never see my Navigator again and should have left it at home so as not to seem suspicious. But my father was still giving me disappointed looks after an intense argument over my lack of responsibility just two hours before and it was much faster to drive off. It took every ounce of strength I had just to get dressed that morning. I had pulled on a pair of white skinny jeans and matched it with a pale pink button down shirt. I added a navy skinny tie for effect, laced up my rarely-worn black converse high tops, and styled my hair with enough hairspray to burn a new hole in the ozone into the usual coif. Technically my outfit was extremely toned down. If the jeans had been of a more casual tightness and not the type to cut off circulation, then I might have passed for straight. Before I opened my mouth, that is.

I looked around the parking lot and, seeing no one, walked inside the shop for a grande nonfat mocha. I didn't know if there would be any coffee stops before San Diego and one last caffeine fix seemed to be in order. There was one person, an old lady with a fierce scowl, in the shop besides myself so I headed back out, paper cup in hand, to wait for the other depressed teenagers to arrive.

A beat up blue Camry parked beside my car not a minute later and I knew that I wasn't alone anymore. A girl with naturally tanned skin stepped out under the streetlight (sauntered may be a better word) in the smallest black dress imaginable. She had dark hair and was wearing make-up that added to her overall appearance suggesting a promiscuous life. She looked me over and raised an eyebrow, but swung her hips in an exaggerated fashion on the way over as if she had not quite decided my sexuality. Or she thought that she could turn even the most flamboyant man straight.

"Hello," she practically purred. "Are you waiting for Puck, too?"

"Yes. And I'm gay."

She wasn't deterred by my bluntness.

"So am I. Why does it matter?"

"I'm not going to sleep with you."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Fine. I'm Santana."

"Kurt."

"What's got you in a rut, Kurt? Boyfriend dumped you? Kicked out of the house for leaving the closet?"

"I'm not killing myself because I'm gay. Not really."

"I am. Then what is it?"

"I… can't explain it."

"Fair enough."

_(Page 11- "What is said about men often has as much influence upon their lives, and especially upon their destinies, as what they do.")_

"I see you're part of the party."

Santana and I turned to see a blonde girl with striking green eyes walk up. Her green miniskirt and high ponytail gave her away as Puck's "cheerleader type" and she stood with us in silence. We waited for another twenty minutes without saying anything other than a short acknowledgment of greeting when the other blonde showed up in his red flannel.

An RV of sorts, rusted on the outside and clearly used as a piñata at some point, clanked into the lot and stopped in front of us. A tall boy with a Mohawk slid out of the driver's seat with a smirk and eyed us each in turn.

"I'm Puck. Where's the other gay?"

"We can leave him," Santana suggested slyly.

"He paid in advance," Puck countered. He held out his hand and we all slapped down our money with a grumble but little resistance.

A curly haired teen in bright yellow-rimmed sunglasses pushed open the doors of the Lima Bean, somehow having been in there without any of us noticing. He slid his shades down his nose briefly to send us an evaluating look before shrugging to himself and replacing his glasses to the proper spot on his nose. The boy opened the back door to the RV without a word and climbed inside. I was not checking out his ass, but Santana seemed to think I was with the wink she sent my way.

"I suppose that's everyone," said Puck. "Who wants to drive first?"

"I nominate Porcelain, over here," shouted Santana.

"Porcelain?" I replied.

"You're ten shades paler than a ghost."

"I already named him Princess."

"Doesn't change the fact that he should drive."

"You heard her, Princess," Puck pushed me towards the driver's side. "Directions are taped to the windshield up to Springfield, Missouri. I'll tell you when to make stops. Who wants shotgun?"

The blonde girl slid in to the passenger seat before anyone could claim it. I sat beside her and squinted at the directions and the tiny map taped in the corner of the windshield. There wasn't enough light to read them and the font size was half the norm.

"If you can't read it," she spoke up, "I have a GPS on my phone."

"I think I've got it… sort of. Keep that GPS, though. I'm not the best at navigating at night."

"I'm Quinn Fabray." Her small smile in my direction seemed like it should be out of character for her (her head-cheerleader persona defied pleasantries and the whole suicide thing in general).

"I'm Kurt Hummel. It's nice to have your company. That other girl seems like she's going to be a pain in the ass."

Quinn giggled and unlocked her iPhone, typing in the Lima Bean's address and San Diego, California just in case I needed the help.

"Now Princess," Puck poked his head through the curtain that separated the front from the rest of the RV, "keep driving until you get to Dayton, and then we'll stop for a couple of hours to eat and sleep and stuff and switch drivers."

* * *

><p>"We're almost to Flagstaff," Sam announces as traffic stalls on the highway. "Just a little back-up in front of us and like, two exits to go. Who's driving next?"<p>

By now we've decided to let Santana continue the tradition of picking the driving order, so we all turn expectantly towards her. She only took a brief turn somewhere in Oklahoma when the rest of us were pretty much dead on our feet and she claimed that she wasn't planning on a car accident for her death and that it was rather selfish of us to fall asleep like that. After an hour of her erratic steering and excessive speed, Blaine took the wheel again until we got to Amarillo, Texas.

"Puck," she says simply.

"Thanks a lot," the boy in question groans.

"Is that a good idea? He's probably the most drunk out of all of us."

"So we'll stay a night in Flagstaff and he can sleep it off," Blaine suggests. "That'll give Kurtie more time to be a nerd."

"Do we have enough for a hotel?" I ask skeptically. "Keeping in mind that Puck has his heart set on a night in Phoenix and his friend won't let us bunk with him for a night in California."

"I know where we can stay."

"Really, Blaine? Oh please, share your wisdom with the rest of us." I roll my eyes and fix him with an icy stare that he just grins at.

"My aunt lives in Flagstaff. She's like, the only decent member of my family and she lives in a pretty big house by herself since Uncle Rick ran off with his Mexican girlfriend four years ago."

"And she would let a bunch of teenagers who smell like alcohol and all sorts of other crap stay in her house with no prior notice?"

"Sure! I'm her favorite nephew."

"Who's your competition?" Santana throws in between drinks.

"My older brother Adam. He's a lawyer, and she hates all people involved with the law since no one agreed to track down her ex-husband on the idea that his lover was probably illegal."

"Right…"

"What's her address?" Quinn requests, having woken up sometime during the conversation.

"460 Los Posas Road."

"Turn left here then, Sam."

* * *

><p>We didn't really stop in Albuquerque like we were supposed to. Puck pulled over two exits beforehand so that we could stay at some cheap motel because there weren't enough places for six people to sleep in the RV even if it was only a short stay. We'd been taking turns before but all of us were in need of a little rest. So we clambered out of the car and he handed Quinn, who had quickly become my favorite out of the group, a hundred dollar bill.<p>

"You and Princess can share a double, same for Santana and Anderson and then Guppy Lips and me. So there's no sexing, because we don't have time for that. Save it for the last night."

Quinn approached the front desk cautiously and poked the flabby arm of the large man who was sleeping there. He jumped and shouted a few swears before taking the money from her hands and replacing it with a key, no questions asked. Maybe that's why Puck chose the place. Either way, the two of us shuffled away to room 4, which had been grumbled at us as we left. The door's paint was peeling and there were suspicious noises from the room next door but the bed seemed to be at least touchable.

"You can have the bed if you want," I offered. "I'll sleep on the floor." Not that I wanted to, but it seemed polite.

"We can share. You're not going to molest me or anything."

So we climbed in, still in our clothes from the day, with our eyes planted firmly on the cracked ceiling. What do you say to a girl you met a little less than three days ago as you share a bed in a crappy motel room?

"Why are you going to do it?" She whispered. "I mean, if you're comfortable telling me."

"I… uh… am… was… bullied… because I'm gay. It was a little, well actually extremely, bad at school and I can't… deal with it anymore. You know? It's like… no one wants me to be who I am so… what's the point?"

"I understand. I got knocked up when I was a sophomore and everyone hated me, but that's not really why I came for this… When I was seven, my father started drinking. He never hurt me or anything, but he would… hit my mother sometimes and would always tell me to be a good girl unless I wanted to be like her. It was funny because our pastor was good friends with him and he went to confession every month but it didn't seem to cross his mind that beating his wife was wrong. I didn't tell anyone… He killed her. He pushed her down the stairs and I didn't say anything at all."

_(Page 329- "No one ever keeps a secret so well as a child.")_

* * *

><p>"Blaine! What are you doing in Arizona? I thought you were staying in Westerville for Spring Break?"<p>

Blaine's aunt looks nothing like him. Somewhere in the passage of around four days I have learned that his mother's family is from the Philippines, which explains his tan skin and squinty eyes… and his slightly below average height. His aunt is his brother's younger sister, and so she takes the appearance of the Anderson family, which is distantly Danish and mixed with some Irish and English here and there. She is probably around my height (so a bit taller than Blaine) with straight sandy blonde hair and kind brown eyes. She is slim and carries herself with an air of dignity that is not entirely equal to pride. There is a grace in her movement when she pulls her nephew into an embrace that is nothing like Blaine's personality and tendencies that I've come to know stuck in an RV while riding to my death.

"A few friends and I decided to take a road trip. We were passing through and I remembered that you asked me to visit next time I was in the area. I was hoping that you wouldn't mind if we stayed here for the night. It's getting kind of late to be driving and I don't know of any decent hotels in the area."

By the upper middle class house and clothing she owns, I do see the sense in parking the RV on the street where she can't see it. There would be many more questions about the validity of our 'search for a decent place to stay' if she was able to see our ride for this road trip.

"Of course you can stay! I have plenty of room."

She opens the door all the way and steps aside so that we can awkwardly come into the entryway of her home.

"Well, Blaine, introduce me to all of your friends!" She is so excited and cheery that I cannot help but give up all doubts that I held at Blaine's claim of being her favorite nephew.

"Aunt Laura, this is Noah Puckerman, Santana Lopez, Sam Evans, Quinn Fabray, and Kurt Hummel."

She looks at each of us in turn with a smile and shakes our hands pleasantly. I think that when she sees me she must realize my sexuality because she winks at Blaine and looks back and forth between the two of us for a second.

"I'm not dating Kurt…"

Both he and I blush, but there is some strange fluttering in my stomach that makes a little voice in my head tell me that it isn't disgust coloring my face. I promptly tell said voice to shut up.

"Do you all go to Dalton and Crawford?"

"No…I met them at the Lima Bean at Open Mic Night."

"Did you win?"

"No… er…" Blaine looks around each of us quickly, making a decision that could effectively seal our fates if he picks the wrong one. "Kurt won."

"That's wonderful! Kurt, dear, would you mind singing me the song you won with? I love music, almost as much as my nephew here, and I'm sure you must have a beautiful voice if you managed to beat him." She grins beautifully but I wish I had a gun to shoot her (and Blaine) with.

"I couldn't…"

"Oh, but you have to! Please?"

"I… um… Blaine won second place," I lie with a smirk in the shorter boy's direction (he blanches and shakes his head rapidly but I pay him no mind). "We should sing a duet instead." _If I'm going down, you're going with me_, I convey silently.

"That's perfect! Blaine?"

"Sure… Aunt Laura… I'd _love_ to sing a duet with Kurt… Let me just… speak with him in the kitchen first so we can pick a song."

"Of course, hon. Just follow Blaine, Kurt; he'll show you the way."

* * *

><p>"So, is there a reason you're such a bitch?"<p>

I gasped silently and turned to see Santana's reaction. Judging by the fact that Puck still had his head planted firmly on his shoulders, I guessed that she was in a good mood. Her mouth pulled up on the right to a small hint of a smile, like a ghost of happiness that she had known perhaps in another life.

"I've always been a bitch. Except around Brittany."

"Who's Brittany?" Quinn crossed her legs and rested her elbow on her knees with her chin sitting daintily on her palm.

"She was my girlfriend."

"You're a lesbian?" Puck tilted his head in confusion."

"I don't know what I am, but I loved Brittany and she loved me."

"What happened to her?"

"She loved Artie Abrams more."

"Why aren't you fighting for her?" My voice sounded foreign to my own ears, but the words kept spilling out. "If you really loved her then you should have fought for her until she was yours. That's what love is; you stay with someone until their love for you brings you together."

"That's not how life is, Porcelain. There aren't these perfect matches made in Heaven. People don't have soulmates. Sometimes someone gets the shaft, and that person was me."

"So that's why you're killing yourself," guessed Quinn. "Because you still love her but she loves someone else."

"There is no life without Brittany. I need her to breathe."

(_Page 590: "Marius felt Cosette living within him. To have Cosette, to possess Cosette, this to him was not separable from breathing.")_

* * *

><p>"What the hell do you think you're doing?"<p>

"The same thing you did. You threw me under the metaphorical bus; I pulled you with me."

"We have to fucking convince her or else this all falls to shit! If she finds out what we're doing, she'll call my parents and we'll all be thrown in the loony bin!"

"I know that, Blaine! You shouldn't have told her we met at an Open Mic Night! Do they even have those at the Lima Bean?"

"Of course they do."

"Then why didn't you say some random stranger won it?"

"You are a random stranger," he smirks.

"You know what I meant, asshole. You better be able to sing."

"I can, and she knows that. It's more on your shoulders, buddy. Can _you_ sing?"

"Yes. And if we were competing in Open Mic Night, I would _so_ kick your ass into next week."

"We won't be alive next week."

"That's not the point. What the hell are we going to sing?"

"Um… Do you know "Animal" by Neon Trees?"

"Yes, and that is most certainly not going to convince her that we're not dating."

"Can you think of anything better?"

"No."

"Then shut up."

* * *

><p>When I was eight years old, my mother died in a car accident. I guess you could say that that was the beginning of the end. When I was fifteen, my first kiss was stolen by a jock who was violently questioning his sexuality. I guess you could say that sealed my fate.<p>

When Puck was eight years old, he had a mother that loved him and a sister that saw him as an idol. He was happy and there was nothing better out there for him. When Puck was fifteen everything had been taken away from him by a father that had never cared before. He was miserable and there was no way out.

When Quinn was eight years old, she was just getting used to the idea of her alcoholic father abusing her mother. She was just a little kid with nowhere to turn. When Quinn was fifteen, she was pregnant with a child she didn't want and wasn't ready for. And again, there was nowhere to go.

When Sam was eight years old, his brother and sister were born. He was jealous that there was never enough time for him while the twins were growing up. When Sam was fifteen, he was homeless for the first time and suddenly his own time was gone.

When Santana was eight years old, her grandmother was her hero and her parents were always the enemy. She couldn't wait to go to her _abeula_'s house to escape from the home that she didn't like. When Santana was fifteen, she came out as a lesbian and her _abuela_ hated the sight of her. She couldn't get out of that house fast enough.

When Blaine was eight years old, his father loved him and his mother did too. He was a beloved son and younger brother who wanted for nothing. When Blaine was fifteen, he had already become the family disappointment and couldn't sit down to dinner without being called a manner of slurs. He still wanted nothing but the love he once had.

Moments in life change a person. Moments in our lives killed us. We really weren't so different at all, even if Puck and Santana were crude and Quinn and Sam rarely spoke and Blaine and I always fought. We were too similar to have met in any other circumstance. We were six pieces of a whole. A doomed whole that was destined for failure, but a whole all the same.

* * *

><p>Singing with Blaine made me forget everything that was going to happen in just three days. It made me forget who I was and who he was and all I could think about was maybe the lyrics and definitely that something sparkled in his eyes when he smiled and that he <em>belonged <em>on a stage. Not in a box six feet under the ground and not in Ohio. In New York or in Los Angeles with people screaming his name and someone to come home to every night that loved him. Is it so bad that I want to be that person sometimes? When he's not being a jerk, he's rather attractive.

Laura, as she insists on us calling her, sends us to guestrooms soon after Blaine and I finish our song. She believes our story now, and that's great, but there has been too much change in one night for me to celebrate that. And, as predicted, she is more determined than before in thinking that Blaine and I are dating. She even put us in the same room (one that contains only a double bed).

"I'll take the floor." The déjà vu is not lost on me, but I leave it alone and offer anyway.

"There's enough room, Kurtie."

"My name isn't Kurtie."

"I didn't think you liked Porcelain or Princess."

"I don't."

"Then Kurtie, it is."

"It's Kur_t_."

"Fine. Be boring. Just get in bed. I have to warn you though, I'm a cuddle whore."

"Blaine Anderson, a cuddle whore? Who would believe me if I told them?"

"No one."

I lay on top of the covers and on my side so that I cannot see him. I can feel his eyes roaming over my body, so maybe the position was a bad idea, but soon I feel him climb out from under the blankets. I have no idea what he's…. he lies on top of them so that we are closer and throws his arm around my waist with his chest pressed firmly to my back. It's extremely comfortable and I feel safe in his strong arms, but I cannot let him find out.

"Get off."

"You're comfy."

"Get off."

"No."

"Now."

"No."

He snuggles closer and rests his head between my neck and shoulder. I might be imagining it, but it feels like he breathes in my scent briefly while his nose is so close to my skin and the exhale sends shivers down my spine.

"See? You're enjoying it."

"Please let go."

"I can't, Kurt. You're too good of a teddy bear."

"_You_ seem more like the teddy bear type."

"You can be the big spoon if you want. I'm open to that."

"No thanks. I don't want to cuddle at all."

"Why not?"

"We're not even friends, much less boyfriends."

"We could be. Do you want to die alone? I want to be loved."

"That's nice, Blaine, but you don't love me and I don't love you. So it doesn't matter."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"What about liked then? Needed? Wanted?"

"Forget it."

"Are you a virgin?"

"_What_?"

"I'll take that as a yes. Do you want to die without ever feeling the connection between two people when they give themselves over completely? Don't you want to feel that total vulnerability knowing that the other person will never let you fall?"

"_Yes_, Blaine, but I fail to see what that has to do with you and me."

"I love you."

"No you don't."

"You're right, but I _could_. If we had more time, I could see myself falling in love with you."

"I…" What do you say to something like that? "I could too… I think I could love you too…" The truth, of course. Actually, I intended on saying something else entirely but my mouth ran ahead of my brain in times like this.

"Then let's forget that we have no time and skip all of the 'like' stage. Let me catch you, Kurt. Let me give myself to you."

"I… I can't… It's too much."

"Look at me?"

I turn in his arms to find myself touching noses with him and staring into his eyes.

"Can I kiss you?" he whispers so sincerely. I find myself nodding and leaning into him at the same time.

The softest press of his lips against mind sends my brain reeling in pleasurable shock. His hand comes up to rest on my hip and I tangle my fingers in his mass of curly hair. He pulls back to look at me again and his eyes have darkened but there is something more than just lust there.

I can see it all play out before my eyes. We're friends first, while Blaine is oblivious and I pine after him. Then through some dramatic music sequence he realizes he's been in love with me all along and he nervously pours out his soul for me with something along the lines of "I've been looking for you forever." We date through the rest of high school, and he tells me he loves me in the Lima Bean before the summer begins, and move to New York together to go to college where people are much more accepting of our relationship. On a date somewhere he slips up and asks me to marry him (more like tells me to) and then fumbles to fix it but I say yes before he can back track. We get married at a small ceremony with family and friends and move to a decent sized house outside of New York City so that I can commute to my job working for a designer and he can go record his music or be a lawyer or whatever he wants to do. We adopt two kids, a boy named Lucas Xavier and a girl named Allison Elizabeth. And we grow old together and… there's so much I will never be able to do, so many things that _Blaine and I_ will never be able to do. There will never be a _we_ or an _us_ because we don't have enough time.

"Kurt? Are you alright?"

"I've been looking for you forever," I mutter, pretending that he had said it before like I imagined and this was just reminiscing instead of indulging in a fantasy.

"What?"

"I always thought that love wasn't real. After my mother died it seemed like such a cruel thing to love someone. When they leave you all it does it hurt worse. But you're here and I… I won't have time to do anything about it."

"We can leave, Kurt. We don't have to do it. I don't even know why I'm saying this, but we could go back to Ohio right now and _live_."

"I don't love you, Blaine. That's not even possible. It's just… a vision of the future that probably wouldn't happen anyway. This doesn't change anything." Somehow I know I'm really only trying to convince myself.

He looks hurt.

"But tonight," I continue, "can we just be… can we just pretend like we don't know that we'll be dead in a few days?"

He smiles. The light in his eyes sparkles bright enough to make my skin glow under his gaze.

"We can do that."

And we do.

(_"I did not live until today. How can I live when we are parted? Tomorrow you'll be worlds away, and yet with you my world has started." – Marius and Cosette, "One Day More")_

* * *

><p>The road to Phoenix is quiet. Blaine and I lie together on the little couch while I rest my head on his chest and read my book. He hums a song so low that only I can hear it and I cannot help but imagine peaceful nights we could spend in a little apartment with all of the time in the world to spare. Quinn keeps looking over at us with a blank expression and Puck makes inappropriate comments about our escapades at Blaine's aunt's house. Blaine tries to tell him that all we did was kiss and talk, but the older boy won't have any excuses.<p>

"Oh, shut up," Santana shouts from her position as driver. She decided that she needed to get away from our sickening display of affection and took the job from Puck, who had been willing to drive once his hangover wore down a bit.

"Are you still going to do it?" Quinn says suddenly.

"What?" I can hear the confusion in Blaine's voice without seeing his face.

"Are you still going to kill yourselves now that you're together?"

There is a hesitation from both of us that makes her smile slightly. We still scramble to say 'yes' but Quinn shakes her head.

"I'm not going to do it."

"_What_?" exclaims Puck.

"I'm not going to commit suicide. I can't do it. There must be something or someone out there for me, and I won't be able to find them if I'm dead. I won't do it. I'm going home as soon as possible."

There is an eerie silence in which each of us looks at the others with unspoken questions and the tension practically smothers me.

"You can't back out," Santana says firmly. "You can't fucking back out of this, you coward."

"You can't _make me_ kill myself."

"Watch me! You agreed to this and you have to see it through!"

"No I don't."

"Puckerman, tell the bitch that she can't _do this_."

Puck doesn't reply; he looks far more contemplative than I think I have ever guessed he could be.

"Anderson. Come on."

Blaine doesn't say anything either, but his arm across my waist tightens minutely and he resumes stroking his thumb lightly over my knuckles.

"Porcelain?"

I look at my page number (800) and do not respond. By the lack of his name, I assume that Sam's expression gave Santana all the answer she needed from him.

Minutes pass and nothing happens. Santana doesn't speak to us again and we don't dare to engage in a conversation.

Blaine kisses the top of my head.

Quinn stands up carefully and makes her way to the back of the RV where there is a small bunk hidden under piles of stuff.

I turn the page.

A screeching sound and then I am thrown from Blaine and he is thrown from the couch as the car swerves.

Metal crunches.

In slow motion I push Blaine off of me and towards the middle of the RV.

A scream.

A searing pain in my side.

A shout that sounds somewhat like my name.

And then… nothing.

_(Page 634- "Did you see a musket aimed at you?"  
><em>"_Yes, and a hand which stopped it."  
><em>"_That was mine.")_

* * *

><p>The grave is just a plain piece of gray stone over freshly laid dirt. There is no fancy embellishing or carvings, just a name and dates, and an obligatory description of the person. The cemetery is just as it has always been: lonely, quiet, and depressing. There is no change now that there is a new tombstone three rows down from where my mother lays for eternity. There is no change now that another grave, just as bleak, rests a bit farther down. The flowers are shockingly bright in this dismal place.<p>

A hand squeezes mine and the fingers intertwined with my own bring me back to Earth.

"There was nothing you could have done, Kurt. Stop blaming yourself."

I look over to my side and exchange a look of understanding with Blaine. Over his shoulder I catch sight of a single girl, a blonde, kneeling in front of the other grave I came to see. She has puffy red eyes and tear stains on her face but she isn't crying now. There is a calm acceptance in her stance that carries with her when she stands, still holding the single flower in her small hand. She meets my eyes and takes a second before she walks over with determination.

"I know it was Santana's fault, and I'm sorry."

There is sincerity in her sad smile and in the blue of her irises that makes me believe her. Blaine seems to be confused by her presence while Puck and Sam glance at each other and shrug. But I know who she is immediately.

"You're Brittany." It isn't a question because I already know the answer. She nods.

"I didn't know San would do that… that she would kill that girl."

"I don't think she meant to."

There is a moment where we understand each other in a way that only comes from losing someone you love. And I know that Brittany loved Santana even if she didn't drop her life and her relationship to be with her.

"…Is it bad that I still love my boyfriend even though she killed herself because of me?"

"No."

She looks at Blaine and then smiles at our joined hands.

"Thank you for going with Santana. I think she needed to leave, even if she was never going to come back."

Brittany bends over slightly and places her flower, a pink rose, on Quinn's grave. She looks at the engraving and presses two fingers to her lips before setting them on the top of the headstone.

"She didn't mean to kill Quinn," Blaine whispers as though he's afraid to break the silence.

"I know," Brittany smiles at him this time. "But she did it anyway, and it's terrible. _And_ she hurt you as well," she looks pointedly at the cast on Blaine's other arm and at the obvious bulky bandages underneath my button down.

"Britt? Are you ready to go?" A boy in a wheelchair calls softly from the direction of the parking lot.

She nods and then looks at us one last time.

"Goodbye," Brittany places her hand on my shoulder lightly before she leaves.

We don't watch her go, but we look at the rose she left, the one she placed on the grave of a girl she didn't know instead of the girl who had loved her.

_(Page 829- "Without doubt, in the gloom some mighty angel was standing, with outstretched wings, awaiting the soul.")_


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